


Harellan

by misscai



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Romance, bull being cute, lavellan kicking ass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 02:50:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5231105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misscai/pseuds/misscai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisitor /really/ doesn't like Gatt. A rewrite of how Bull's quest should have ended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harellan

“You know I shouldn't let you do this,” Rhonen said, leaning against the trunk of a tree and watching as Ceire tied her long white hair up with a strip of braided leather. The style looked humorously similar to the swishing tail of Dahy, Ceire's raven-black stallion. “Keeper will exile you when he finds out.”

  
“I'm already exiled, _lethallin_ ,” Ceire reminded him with a wry smile, adjusting a strap on the mercenary armor he'd provided her. “In essence if not in entirety.”

  
“They don't understand you, that's all.” Ceire didn't respond, simply slid her daggers into the sheath on her back and looped her knapsack across her chest until it settled familiarly just below her hip. Rhonen grabbed her elbow, gaining her attention. His pale green eyes had lost the playful edge that they always held, going softer now as he looked down at her. “You aren't cursed, _lethallan_. No matter what the Keeper says.”

  
“I know,” She teased, shoving at his shoulder. “You're the cursed one, with that face of yours.”

  
“Oh yes, I'm cursed with a face that makes all of the clan-women swoon,” Rhonen grinned.

  
“They swoon out of horror at your ugliness,” Ceire retorted, and Rhonen just laughed.

  
“Get on your horse, spawn of Falon'Din,” He said, lifting her onto Dahy's back. She looped one hand through his mane, reaching down with the free hand to ruffle Rhonen's deep chestnut hair. “ _Dareth shiral_. Safe journey, sister.”

  
.

  
Ceire blinked awake, finding a pair of blue eyes looking back at her. She didn't startle, too used to such occurences to be alarmed by them now. Instead she sat up, taking stock of her surroundings. Hard stone under her back, pressed into her arm. A blue sky above, lazy clouds drifting in the wind. Cold air, but not so cold to be uncomfortable. So, she was on the battlements somewhere. Odd.

  
“You have a bed, but you were sleeping here. Why?” Cole inquired.

  
“The sun feels nice,” Ceire replied, stretching her arms and getting to her feet. “Should we go get something to eat? I'm hungry.” Cole nodded, following her to the kitchen. A few of the staff bowed in greeting, still stiff and uncomfortable with her, but most of them smiled and greeted her with friendly, familiar words. It took little time at all for them to fix her and Cole both a plate of lunch, and they retreated into the man hall to eat.

  
“Who is the man with the green eyes?” Cole asked her, and Ceire nearly choked on her water. “I'm sorry! I didn't know it would hurt.”

  
“No, no,” She shook her head. “It doesn't hurt, exactly. I was just surprised.”

  
“I saw him in your dream. Patient, playful, protective. He taught you how to use a bow and daggers. He was with you for a long time.”

  
“Yes, he was,” Ceire said, her lips curving as flashes of memory took over her mind.

  
“You're smiling, but it's not your normal smile. It's... smaller. Why is it so sad?”

  
“I haven't seen him in a very long time, that's all. I miss him.” She finished up her plate and turned her smile on Cole, pushing worrisome thoughts away. “Why don't we go check on those baby nugs near the lake later today? I bet they're about ready to open their eyes.” With that, she stood and plucked his hat off of his head, ignoring his yelp of protest as she placed it firmly over her own short white-blonde locks and darted out of the hall.

  
.

  
Three careful knocks at Cullen's door pulled the man away from his work. He rubbed his eyes, calling for the person to come in. He was busy arranging papers when Cole walked up to him, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. Cullen's brow furrowed.

  
“Cole. Is there something you need?”

  
“I have a request,” The boy started, and Cullen nodded for him to go on. “There is an elf man with pale green eyes, and she misses him. I want to go find him, so she can see him again.”

  
“You mean... the Inquisitor?” Cole nodded, and Cullen couldn't help the pit of disappointment that bloomed in his stomach.

  
“I do not think they care for each other in that way,” Cole commented softly, reacting to Cullen's emotion. The commander cleared his throat, blushing lightly.

  
“Where is this man?”

  
“I think he is with her clan.”

  
“Do you know his name?”

  
“No. But if I saw him, I would know who he was.” Cullen sighed internally, striding over to the side door and calling for the patrol stationed right outside.  
“Yes, ser?” The recruit asked, standing at attention near Cullen's desk as the man scribbled some orders onto a piece of parchment.

  
“Who would you like to go with you, Cole?” He asked, and the boy thought for a moment.

  
“Krem,” He replied, and Cullen added a name to the paper before rolling it up for the recruit.

  
“Take this down to Ser Aclassi.” The recruit nodded and disappeared, with Cole following along behind. They caught Krem on his way into the tavern after a training session with Bull, and the recruit handed over the official note from Cullen before heading back to the commander's office. Krem read over the note quickly, then looked at Cole with a raised brow.

  
“It will make her happy to see him,” Cole explained, fidgeting with his hat—which he'd stolen back from Ceire earlier in the day. “She should be happy.”

  
“Couldn't agree more,” Krem nodded. “I can leave now if you're ready to go.”

  
.

  
Dark eyes watched light eyes watching deer eyes. Dorian stood just inside of the stall of the latest hart that Ceire had found, one hand extended towards the animal's nose cautiously. He didn't enjoy horses, and detested the dracolisks, but always whined about having to share a mount with Ceire every time they went out on a quest. So, she'd picked up a hart for him, assuring him that the creature would be gentle... once it got to know and trust him. That was how he found himself reaching out for the hart, allowing it to get his scent. He'd barely touched the hair of its nose when it snorted. Dorian yelped, scrambling backwards and over the gate of the stall, landing in an unceremonious heap on the ground. Ceire cackled, clutching her stomach with the force of her laughter. When Dorian got to his feet and dusted himself off, he yanked a strand of Ceire's hair, eyes narrowed at her in annoyance.

  
“Sorry, sorry,” She giggled, straightening up and fighting her smile.

  
“Cursed beast,” Dorian mumbled, shooting a glare at the hart. “And you're no better, you utter... ugh!” He trailed off, shaking his head at her. Ceire wound her arms around his midsection, pressing her cheek against his back and looking up at him.

  
“Can you possibly forgive me for my horrid transgression?” She asked, batting her eyelashes at the man who looked down at her over his shoulder.

  
“Fine,” Dorian huffed, poking a finger at her clenched-hand grip and sending a little shock of lightning into the muscles. Ceire gasped and released him, rubbing at her skin accusingly. The mage grinned crookedly at her, even as she slapped at his arm. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead squinted, his gaze on the gate. “What's going on over there?”

  
“Hm?” Ceire followed his eyes, noticing a flurry of activity. Josephine was rushing out of the main hall, trailed by a curious Varric. A few soldiers paused their training in the sparring ring, watching the goings-on. Ceire looked at Dorian, who shrugged, and the two of them headed towards the gate.

  
“Ten sovereigns it's an unexpected nobleman,” Dorian said.

  
“Ten sovereigns it's more refugees,” Ceire bet, the two of them shaking hands as they reached the fringes of the group that had gathered. They both observed the situation, then Dorian sighed and crossed his arms.

  
“Looks like neither of us wins.” He glanced over at Ceire when she didn't respond, his brow furrowing at her slack-jawed stare. “Something wrong?” Again, she didn't answer, just took a shaky few steps forward.

  
“Rhonen?” She said softly, gaining the attention of the third member of the party who had just arrived. The elven man whipped his head around to look at her, blinking quickly.

  
“ _Lethallan_?” He gasped, and Ceire ran to throw her arms around his neck. He caught her, still looking absolutely shell-shocked when she pulled away to grin up at him and study his face.

  
“I can't believe you're here!” She laughed breathlessly. “How—”

  
“Cole brought him,” Krem put in, nudging the spirit-boy-turned-human. Cole's cheeks turned pink and he pulled his hat lower on his head, but Ceire launched herself at him and knocked the hat away with the force of her embrace.

  
“Thank you, Cole, thank you so much,” She gushed, pulling back and placing a quick kiss on the boy's cheek before bouncing back to Rhonen. “There's so much I need to show you, _lethallin_.” She looped her arm through his and led him to the main hall, leaving everyone to stare after them.

  
.

  
“So,” Ceire beamed, sitting down with Rhonen at a table on the second floor of the tavern. “What do you think?”

  
“It's... not what I expected.”

  
“I know, it's a little much at first,” Ceire giggled, running a hand through her hair. “But enough about me; what about you? How are the others? Did you finally tell Moira that you've been in love with her since we were kids?” Rhonen's expression grew pained, and Ceire paused, her own demeanor changing instantly. “What's wrong? What happened?”

  
“Nothing, it's just...” He arranged his face carefully, then smiled at her, the playfulness back in his eyes. “It's strange to see you like this, _lethallan_. You've grown up.” He pinched her cheek, making her laugh. “Still giggle like a kid, though.”

  
“And you're still ugly,” Ceire retorted, sticking her tongue out at him. Rhonen chuckled at that, winking at her.

  
“Moira doesn't think so.”

  
“So you did tell her! How wonderful,” She grinned. “Am I an auntie yet?”

  
“To a little girl, yes,” Rhonen laughed. “Her name is Ailis.”

  
“Oh, I can't wait to see her.” Ceire's smile was radiant, her mind so absorbed in thinking about the baby girl that she missed the flicker of pain in Rhonen's eyes. “I hope she's as much of a troublemaker as her auntie is.”

  
“She will be,” Rhonen assured her, then redirected the conversation. “Seems like you are making trouble in Skyhold.” At her questioning glance, he made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “All the men stare at you as if you were the golden halla herself. Especially that horned man. The Bull?” Ceire snorted, but Rhonen rolled his eyes. “Have I ever been incorrect in assessing others' feelings?”

  
“No,” Ceire admitted in a grumble.

  
“Then you should trust me.”

  
“I trust you,” She said, then grinned, a glint of dare in her eyes. “But I want proof.”

  
.

  
By noon the next day, Rhonen had done most of the observations he needed. He sat on a crate outside of the sparring ring, munching on an apple and ruminating on how he would convince Ceire of the Qunari man's affections. But soon his focus turned from the task at hand to Ceire herself, who was watching Krem and Grim mock fight in the ring.

  
She was not the same girl he'd sent along to the conclave nearly three years ago. There were the physical differences that proved that, of course: her white-blonde hair now short, small scars nicked across her skin, the glowing green anchor gashed across her palm. But something else signified the changes she'd gone through, and it made pride blossom in his chest. She held herself higher, her spine a little straighter, her shoulders squared and chin lifted. No longer did she keep her eyes on the ground when she spoke to people; the timidity in her voice was gone. Rhonen was pleased initially, but after watching closer, a frown creased his brow.  
Ceire was more confident, it was true, but she didn't act like herself. He recalled a wild girl, with muddy bare feet and leaves caught in her hair, flitting through the trees with all the grace of a sparrow. She was entirely elven then, but now... Now she acted more like a shem than Rhonen was comfortable with. He was an outsider among the members of this Inquisition that seemed to have obliterated a piece of Ceire. They were still siblings, and he still loved her, but now she seemed as distant to him as one of the stars.

  
.

  
“So?” Ceire said later that evening, poking at Rhonen's arm. “Have you found your almighty proof yet?”

  
“I prefer demonstration,” Rhonen teased, pushing her towards the tavern and walking alongside her. “So we are going to walk in for drinks.”

  
“Just walk in?”

  
“Just walk in. And watch his face.” Ceire couldn't help but snicker at that.

  
“As if that would work,” She dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand. “He's Ben-Hassrath. He never lets his expression be his tell.”

  
“As you say, _lethallin_. But humor me.” And so Rhonen pushed open the door and allowed Ceire to step inside. As soon as her foot crossed the threshold, Bull got to his feet and lifted his tankard.

  
“Inquisitor!” He crowed, his grin faltering just the slightest as his brow furrowed. “And... the man that Krem brought back.” Ceire laughed, looping her arm through Rhonen's and pulling him forward. The Chargers were all gathered in Bull's corner, in various stages of drinking.

  
“This is my brother, Rhonen Lavellan,” Ceire introduced. Rhonen noted the barest hint of relief in Bull's eye as the man reached out to shake his hand.

  
“Never would have guessed,” Bull said, examining the two of them. “Not much family resemblance.” Rhonen felt Ceire stiffen at his side, and hastily squeezed her hand. She shook her head just the slightest, slipping away with a fake smile and darting upstairs to invite Cole to join them. Bull obviously noticed, too, looking to Rhonen with question in his eyes. Rhonen sighed and sat down next to the Qunari man.

  
“We are siblings, despite evidence that would say otherwise,” He said. “But the rest I'll leave to Ceire to explain. I can see she is very trusting of all of you. Perhaps she will see fit to share.” There was a moment of silence between them, both men sizing each other up.

  
“You're hiding something from her,” Bull accused.

  
“As are you,” Rhonen retorted. Both of them grimaced, at another stalemate that was only broken by Ceire's reappearance with Cole in tow. All tense conversation was set aside, Ceire keeping the focus on the Chargers and their wild stories. Rhonen watched Ceire go through one drink, then two, then a third, his discomfort growing as she started to spill stories from their own clan. He excused himself quickly, before the distance between them grew any larger than he could bear.

  
.

  
Bull followed Ceire when she stumbled outside late that evening, dropping to her knees behind the tavern and promptly emptying the contents of her stomach. He sat beside her, patting her back as all the alcohol she'd consumed came back up. When she was finished, he handed over a tankard of water that he'd brought outside with them, allowing her to rinse out her mouth.

  
“I keep telling you not to drink on an empty stomach, Boss,” Bull chided. “And not to go past three. You're a lightweight.”

  
“Shh,” She said, sprawling on her stomach in the grass and closing her eyes against the way the world was spinning. He chuckled and tapped his fingers in a rhythm against her spine, then slowed them to an easy stroke as his discussion with her brother came back to mind. “You're too soft. Wha's th' matter?”

  
“Just thinking.”

  
“Oh dear,” She managed to murmur, earning another soft chuckle.

  
“Tonight is the most I've heard you talk about your clan,” Bull noted. Ceire opened her eyes to look at him, then rolled onto her side so her back was facing him.

  
“'S not m' favorite subject,” She mumbled, barely audible.

  
“It seems like you have a tense relationship with your clan,” Bull commented gently. Ceire's spine stiffened up, and he immediately reached out to trail his knuckles along the ridge. “Hey. If you want me to drop it, just say the word.” She was quiet for a moment, then she rolled onto her back and glanced over at him.

  
“My clan treated me like an outsider,” Ceire said, turning her gaze on the stars. “Because of my appearance.”

  
“Too pretty for them?” Bull teased, hoping for a smile that he didn't receive.

  
“My people look like Rhonen. Light eyes, darker hair. I'm the opposite.” She swallowed hard, past a lump that he could see. “Our Keeper—the leader of our clan—declared me _banal'ras lin_ when I was born.”

  
“What does that mean?”

  
“'Shadowed blood'. He—” She squeezed her eyes shut, speaking quicker now as her buzz had been killed by the conversation. “He said I was the spawn of Falon'Din, corrupted by our god of death. He said I would bring the end of the Lavellan clan. My father left us immediately. My mother cared for me until I was four, then...” A tear dripped from the corner of Ceire's eye, disappearing into her hairline. “She died, trying to save me from a great bear. The Keeper killed it, but said that... that the beast had black eyes, just like mine.”

  
“Damn,” Bull said under his breath. Ceire looked at him, her lower lip trembling with the effort of holding her tears back. He immediately reached for her, but she sat up and hugged her knees.

  
“You don't like girls who cry,” She mumbled. Bull rolled his eyes and pulled her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her.

  
“I'll make an exception,” He said, squeezing her. “But only because you're good with those daggers and I'd hate to have one in my back.” She hiccuped a giggle at that, relaxing in his grip.

  
“Rhonen always said it wasn't Falon'Din,” She said after a long minute of silence. “He told me that I was touched by Andruil, goddess of the hunt. That's why I was so quick at learning the bow and dagger.”

  
“I'd believe that,” Bull nodded, then laughed. “You must have some kind of luck, to have two goddesses on your side. Remind me not to bet against you in Wicked Grace.”

  
“Maybe I should play in Cullen's place. Poor thing always loses his clothes.”

  
“Good idea. I'd rather see you naked than the commander.”

  
“Arse,” Ceire teased him, slapping at his hand. They laughed together, then Ceire turned to face Bull, still seated in his lap. A light blush covered her cheeks. “Thank you, for being here.”

  
“Anytime, Boss.”

  
.

  
A few days later, Bull caught Ceire as she was coming out of the main hall, pulling her to the side of the upper courtyard. She laughed at his urgency, tickling at his stomach playfully.

  
“Eager for more of the tragic history of Ceire Lavellan?” She inquired, and he rolled his eyes.

  
“Enticing, but no.” He glanced around the courtyard, then looked back at her. Ceire's brow furrowed, her expression going more serious.

  
“What's going on?”

  
“The Ben-Hassrath contacted me. The Qunari are considering an alliance with the Inquisition.”

  
“Really? Well... good, I think?” She studied his face. “You don't look too pleased.”

  
“No, I'm... Just...” He sighed, shaking his head and shifting his weight from foot to foot. “I'm just used to them being... not here. It'll take some getting used to. But I do think an alliance could be helpful. They want to take down Corypheus just as much as we do.”

  
“So what happens next?”

  
“They want us to head to the Storm Coast to take care of a Venatori ship full of red lyrium. We're keeping it small though: you, me, the Chargers, maybe a few others. They're sending an envoy to meet us there. Shouldn't be too hard.” Ceire nodded thoughtfully.

  
“Alright. We should get on the road. I'll get... Vivienne and Cole? Dorian would love to get at the Venatori, but if it's a Qunari representative...”

  
“Yeah, good thinking, Boss. I'll get Krem and the others ready. We'll meet you by the gate.” With that, Bull turned to walk back into the tavern, but Ceire grabbed at his elbow.

  
“Do you think Rhonen could go? He's a really good archer, he could hang back with Vivienne and shoot at range...”

  
“I'm not the one in charge,” Bull grinned, then softened his expression just the slightest. “But if he comes, I'll watch out for him.” Relief showed in Ceire's eyes as she thanked him, then turned on her heel to gather her party.

  
.

  
“The contact should be here,” Bull said, reaching back to grab Ceire's hand and help her up the slippery mud path.

  
“He is,” A voice replied, just as a thin elven man stepped out from under a canvas tent. He looked familiar to Ceire, though she couldn't place him. She passed it off as just a resemblance to her clan members, until Rhonen squinted at the man.

  
“Tarion?” He asked, and the man's eyes widened, the name obviously meaning something to him. “By Mythal, it _is_ you.”

  
“Rhonen Lavellan,” The man gasped.

  
“What's going on?” Bull asked, frowning. “Gatt? Or Tarion? Or whoever you are?”

  
“I used to be Tarion. I knew Rhonen briefly, before the Vints took me.” He turned his attention to Rhonen again. “I'm Gatt now. I work with the Ben-Hassrath.” Rhonen nodded in acceptance, and Gatt addressed Bull. “I'm glad you decided to show, Hissrad.”

  
“Hissrad?” Ceire questioned, earning Gatt's green-eyed gaze though it was Bull who answered.

  
“Under the Qun, we don't have names, just nicknames based on our jobs. 'Hissrad' can be translated to 'keeper of illusions', or—”

  
“'Liar',” Gatt said. “It means 'liar'.”

  
“Well, you don't have to say it like _that_ ,” Bull grimaced.

  
“So what's the plan here?” Ceire asked quickly, hoping to divert attention as she brushed a reassuring hand over Bull's forearm.

  
“Right. Our scouts have found two possible locations where the Venatori could cover the ship's run. There,” He pointed in one direction, then the other, “and there. We'll have to split up and cover both locations. Once they're secure, we signal the dreadnought.”

  
“Does this work for you, Bull?” Ceire inquired, glancing up at the man.

  
“Never liked covering a dreadnought run,” Bull admitted with a scowl. “Too many ways for crap to go wrong. Splitting up is risky.”

  
“Riskier than letting red lyrium into Minrathous?” Gatt exclaimed, frowning. A prick of irritation for the elvish man sparked through Ceire.

  
“Let's just go hold up our end of the bargain,” Ceire said, earning nods from everyone. Gatt walked back into the tent to get his sword. Bull turned to Ceire.

  
“I'll come with you. Krem can lead the Chargers; just let me go fill him in.”

  
“You can go with them, if you want. I'm sure your company wouldn't mind the extra man.” The corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile.

  
“Nah, Krem likes the spotlight. Besides, I've got to look after you and the kid.” Ceire lifted a brow and glanced at the handles of her knives over her shoulder.

  
“I can take care of myself, thank you,” She teased, and he laughed.

  
“Humor me.” He jerked his head towards the Chargers who were milling about nearby. “Let me brief them. Two minutes and we can head out.”

  
.

  
“First camp's ahead,” Gatt whispered. Ceire nodded, taking a moment to analyze the field.

  
“Vivienne—”

  
“The fallen tree over to the right, I'd imagine,” She said, and Ceire giggled in affirmation.

  
“Go with Vivienne, _lethallin_. Shoot anyone who isn't us.” Rhonen notched an arrow in his bow, ready to go. “Bull—”

  
“I know, Boss. We do this a lot,” The man teased, and Ceire stuck her tongue out at him, sharing a grin with Cole before both of them disappeared into cloaks of shadow. Bull and Gatt went rushing in with war cries, serving as a distraction for Vivienne and Rhonen to get into position and begin their attack. Ceire and Cole ducked beneath Bull's wide swings, flashing in and out of view as their blades struck deep. Within a few minutes, the fight was over.

  
“One more camp,” Gatt declared, pointing further up the hill. “More Venatori this time.”

  
“No problem,” Ceire smiled, vanishing again and appearing behind one of the archers, her daggers sunk into his neck.

  
“What a woman,” Bull cackled as he rushed in behind her. Gatt and Rhonen both frowned to themselves before launching into action. Soon, the camp was cleared out.

  
“Signaling the dreadnought,” Gatt said, doing so by releasing a bright red flare into the air. Bull pointed to another, identical light further down the coast.

  
“The Chargers already got theirs up.”

  
“I knew you gave them the easier job.”

  
“Only because I knew we could handle this.” Ceire joined the men, a too-big helmet covering her hair. She shook a leather sack filled with gold, grinning.

  
“Spoils of war,” She giggled, pushing the helmet out of her eyes to watch the dreadnought sailing in. Balls of fire erupted from the deck, arcing in the air before smashing into the Venatori smuggler ship. The whole thing burst into flame, beginning to sink under roiling waves.

  
“Nice!” Bull laughed, then his eyes shifted from the ship to the wave of Venatori heading straight for the Chargers, and his expression soured. “Crap.”

  
.

  
Worry and panic clenched Ceire's stomach as she watched the force advance on the unaware Chargers. Cole squeezed her hand, hearing her distressed thoughts. She laced her fingers with his, tugging him along as she approached Bull, whose jaw was flexing with indecision. He glanced down at her when she reached his side.

  
“They can't fight all of them off,” Ceire said softly. Bull shook his head once.

  
“No. They can't.”

  
“Your men need to hold that position, Bull,” Gatt reminded him, earning a glare from the Qunari and from Ceire.

  
“They do that, they're dead.” Bull's voice was sharp, more angry than the bloodstained edge of his axe.

  
“And if they don't, the Venatori retake it and the dreadnought is dead,” Gatt replied. Seeing how little that affected Bull, Gatt took a half-step forward. “You'd be throwing away an alliance between the Inquisition and the Qunari! You'd be declaring yourself Tal-Vashoth!” That rattled him, his pragmatic side at war with his protectiveness. Gatt was relentless. “With all you've given the Inquisition, half the Ben-Hassrath think you've betrayed us already!” He shook his head, giving Bull a glare of thinly veiled disgust and disappointment. “I stood up for you, Hissrad. I told them you would never become Tal-Vashoth!”

  
“They're my men,” Bull growled, his knuckles white, squeezed into tight fists.

  
“I know,” Gatt said, almost sounding sympathetic. “But you need to do what's right, Hissrad... for this alliance, and for the Qun.” Bull turned his gaze to Ceire at the same moment that she stepped forward to get his attention.

  
“Call the retreat,” She said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

  
“ _Don't_.” Gatt scowled at Ceire, who matched his expression with fire in her eyes. Bull blew a horn, relief on his face when Krem immediately rounded up the Chargers and led them away from the camp they'd occupied.

  
“They're falling back,” He said. Gatt shook his head in anger, walking in front of them and fuming visibly.

  
“All these years, Hissrad, and you throw away all that you are. For what? For this? For _them_?” He sneered, pointing an accusatory finger at Ceire. Before Bull could step up and defend her, Ceire herself stalked closer to Gatt. She jabbed a finger into his chest.

  
“His name is The Iron Bull,” She snarled. Insults and curses went unsaid, but were communicated through her venomous stare. Gatt's lip curled in a wry, bitter smirk.

  
“I suppose it is,” He replied, stalking past her and making sure to bump his shoulder against hers. Cole grabbed her wrists before she could fling a dagger into the elf man's back.

  
“What an unsavory young man,” Vivienne said with cool distaste.

  
“Damn right,” Ceire muttered, then followed Bull's gaze to the beach below, where the Venatori mages were launching firebolts at the dreadnought.

  
“No way they'll get out of range. Won't be long now,” The man said lowly. Ceire watched the fires strike their mark.

  
“Bull, when the dreadnought sinks—” She said, and he interrupted with a sharp, barking laugh.

  
“Sinks? Qunari dreadnoughts don't sink.” Before she could ask, there was an earth-shaking explosion from the sea. Ceire yelped just a little, morbid fascination on her face as the metal ship shattered from the inside out. For just a moment longer, she observed the smoldering ruins that had smattered onshore. Bull sighed, steering her away with the barest hint of his palm on her lower back. “Come on. Let's get back to my boys.”

  
.

  
They headed to Skyhold immediately. Ceire led the party, Cole and Vivienne on either side of her. Rhonen hung back, quiet and brooding about something that Ceire couldn't quite bring herself to care about. She was busy imagining all the things she could've said to Gatt, and when she'd exhausted that list, she fantasized about how he'd look tumbling down a very muddy hill—having been pushed by her hand, of course. She apologized to Cole multiple times, noticing his winces at some of her more violent visions. Each time, Vivienne would add in a reassurance that truly, the man deserved whatever she was thinking of. 'How uncivilized of him, truly,' She'd say, tutting her displeasure. 'And not to mention that tragedy of a haircut'.

  
Bull stayed with his men throughout the whole trip, all of them heading into the tavern the moment they crossed the bridge into the hold. He hesitated at the door, wanting to say something to Ceire but not really knowing what. So instead he bought drinks for the Chargers and quietly watched them to make certain they were all unharmed.

  
Ceire bypassed her quarters, choosing instead to head to the Undercroft. Dagna and Harritt were both gone, which was all the better for her. She retrieved an armful of stormheart that she'd bought from the Black Emporium a few weeks ago, intending to make something out of it but not sure what. Cole had snapped off the end of his dagger in the breastbone of one of the Venatori on the Coast, so she set to work on making a replacement. The heat of the forge and the steady rhythm of her hammer forming the new blade calmed her fury, and she spent a good few hours making sure the dagger was perfect. She pressed an electricity rune into its pommel, sandwiching the runestone between two pieces of onyx before dunking the entire thing into a bucket of icy water from the waterfall outside. The metal hissed as it set into place, and Ceire observed her handiwork with a sense of pride before wrapping it in a strip of velveteen fabric to present it to Cole.  
She hummed to herself as she walked towards the tavern, feeling much better about her day. The blade thrummed with energy, ready to infuse its target's blood with lightning the moment it encountered flesh. Cole would be delighted. Maybe she could beg for his hat as a gift in return. She did so adore the tattered thing...

  
“Inquisitor,” A familiar, oh-so-infuriating voice said as she passed the sparring ring. Ceire paused, flexing her fingers around the dagger and willing herself not to use it. Gatt stepped out of the shadows near the training dummies on the side of the courtyard, his expression an attempt at detachment but still simmering with disdain. “It is my duty to inform you that there will be no alliance between our peoples. Nor will you be receiving any more Ben-Hassrath reports from your Tal-Vashoth ally.”

  
“Your duty? Tell me, Gatt,” She spat his name, lifting a brow as she approached. “Did your superiors offer you this exquisite honor, or did you beg to be the one to deliver the news? Please, try not to enjoy it so much.”

  
“You think I enjoy seeing the man who saved my life turned into a whipped dog by your filthy, Fade-touched hand?” Gatt snarled, eyes narrowed and dangerous.

“He was one of the Ben-Hassrath's best spies. And now he's a traitor, a Tal-Vashoth. He is nothing, and it's your fault.” And Ceire's tenuous hold on civility snapped. She dropped the dagger, launching herself at the elven man. Her sudden attack caught him off guard, and they both fell to the ground. Ceire pulled back and threw a punch at Gatt's face, the man stopping her and twisting her arm around her back. They rolled, him pinning her to the ground and yanking her arm to the point of pain. She yelped, then brought her knee up between his legs—hard. Gatt groaned and released her in favor of covering his most tender spot, and Ceire used this time to plant her feet on his stomach and kick him away. She scrambled after him, intending to get in at least one good punch, but his own fist flung out and struck her solidly in the eye.

  
This only fueled her fire. It was a full-out fistfight now, both of them shouting insults in their native tongue and striking with all their might. Distantly, she could hear the guards yelling for them to stop, but nobody interfered, and so she continued her assault, raking her nails across Gatt's cheek. He growled, then rolled until he was on top again and reached out to grab at her throat. She did the same, both of them squeezing and gasping for air that they couldn't quite suck in.

  
“Hey!” Someone roared, and suddenly Gatt's body flew away from hers. Ceire scrambled to her feet to follow, but found her arms restrained.

  
“Let go of me,” She growled, thrashing against her captors.

  
“Easy, easy!” Cullen said, tightening his hold on her left arm. Cassandra did the same with her right. Ceire stilled herself, her breathing still heavy with rage. Bull jerked Gatt to his feet, shoving him roughly towards the gate of Skyhold.

  
“Get out, Gatt,” He rumbled lowly. “Unless you have orders to kill me for my actions.”

  
“No,” Gatt said, blood trickling from the scratches Ceire had gouged into his cheek. “The Ben-Hassrath have already lost one good man. They'd rather not lose two.” He glared at Ceire, offering a mocking half-bow that had her spewing expletives and struggling in Cullen and Cassandra's grasp once more. Then Gatt walked out the gates, and once they were sure she wouldn't follow, Ceire was released.

  
“You should see a healer, Inquisitor,” Cullen suggested, worry creasing his brow. She shook her head, even as she felt blood drip down from a busted nose, blending with that from a split lip. Her eye was swollen and tender already, her knuckles bruised and the thin skin torn.

  
“I'm fine,” She muttered, picking up the velvet-wrapped dagger from the ground and shoving it into Varric's hands. “Give that to Cole; it's a replacement.” With that, she headed upstairs to her room, keeping her gaze on the ground and decidedly away from Bull.

  
.

  
Rhonen was in her room when she finally made it up the stairs, achingly bruised and battered but still jittery with adrenaline. She started peeling off her armor, tossing it onto her bed before she eyed the tense way her brother held himself. Then she lifted a brow, wincing as she did.

  
“Something wrong?” She asked. His jaw flexed, then he turned to face her, looking angrier than she'd ever seen him.

  
“I'm going home,” He said, his voice hard. She frowned.

  
“Why?”

  
“Because the Keeper was right about you!” Rhonen exploded suddenly, then squeezed his eyes shut and regained his control. Ceire had flinched backwards as if he'd slapped her.

  
“Wh—What are you talking about?”

  
“That's the only reason he allowed me to come,” Rhonen said, avoiding her eyes. “He wanted me to see for myself...”

  
“See what?”

  
“That you were beyond saving.” His voice was quiet, but ripped through Ceire's heart like an arrow fired at close range. “Once word reached us that you were the one with the Fade in her hand... the Keeper was certain that he had been proven correct in his assumptions about Falon'Din's touch in your blood. I tried to tell him otherwise, but...” He straightened his back and folded his arms across his chest. “Now that I have seen you as this 'Inquisitor', I believe him.”

  
“I'm trying to save Thedas!” Ceire defended herself, her blood running cold. “I do what I must to help people!”

  
“You keep company with an elf who hates our people,” Rhonen accused. “You spend all of your time plotting who to kill and how to kill them. You associate with these shemlen, while elves—our people, Ceire, our kin—work from dawn until midnight making your food and cleaning your halls. And you would fight with one of our own to defend an outsider.”

  
“Rhonen...” She whispered, and he shook his head. “ _Lethallin_.”

  
“Don't call me that,” He said softly. “ _Ir abelas_ , but I... I exile you from the clan, in the name of our Keeper, and strip you of the Lavellan name.”

  
“No.” The word shuddered out of her chest. Rhonen squeezed her shoulder.

  
“I wish you no ill will,” He said. “But you must understand that you no longer act like one of the Elvhen, and so you can no longer be one of the Elvhen. _Dareth shiral_ , Ceire Harellan. _Ar lasa mala revas_.” And he disappeared down the stairs.

  
.

  
“... can't just poof up there?” Varric was asking Cole when Bull walked into the main hall for breakfast. Cole shook his head, and everyone at the table sighed. Bull took a seat beside Cullen, trying to unravel what the conversation was about.

  
“Disintegrate the door, perhaps?” Dorian suggested, only half-joking.

  
“Not a chance, dear,” Vivienne said. “I personally oversaw the barriers placed to ward off magical attacks, and nobody undoes my work.”

  
“Can't _you_ undo your work?” Sera questioned.

  
“Has anyone tried knocking?” This from Blackwall. More questions and commentary circled around the table, no solution being found.

  
“What is going on?” Bull asked finally, loud enough to get the table's attention.

  
“The Inquisitor has sequestered herself in her room,” Josephine said tentatively.

  
“So, what? She's taking a break from the Inquisition for a day? Surely she deserves that,” Bull said, not understanding the big deal. Everyone glanced at each other.

  
“She hasn't been down in four days,” Leliana spoke up. Bull nodded and pushed out of his chair.

  
“I'll go get her,” He said, striding over to the last door on the left side of the hall. That one was open, and he took the stairs two at a time. At the end of the top flight, an untouched tray of food sat outside the door, still a bit warm. Bull leaned against the door, rapping his knuckles loudly against the wood. No reply, as he'd expected. “Boss?” He called, waiting a moment. Again, nothing. He pressed his body weight against the door, no budge detected. Then he pulled away and threw his weight against the door, feeling a slight shudder but nothing else. So he stepped back, rolled his shoulders, and planted a solid, hard kick near the door handle. With a screech and a clatter, the door swung open, and Bull stepped inside with a self-satisfied smirk.

  
.

  
The first thing he noticed were the daggers on the ground behind the door. Ceire must have wedged them deep into the wood to hold the door closed. He had to give her props for her creativity, but the pit of worry in his stomach doubled in size when he realized that she'd gone to such lengths to keep others out. He climbed the stairs slowly, listening for any sign of life. When he rounded the corner, Bull's mouth dropped.

  
Everything was broken. The Dalish windows that Ceire had been so delighted about purchasing in Val Royeaux now lay in shatters all across the floor. Her collection of books, meticulously cultivated and always arranged so carefully on her shelves, was torn apart, the pages shredded and strewn everywhere. The shelves themselves were tipped over, some of the wood splintered and gashed with deep ruts as if she'd been hacking at them with her daggers. Ink splashed across the walls, dripping in dried rivulets to the floor. Her pillows were ripped open, feathery innards spilling out of fatal slashes. And in little, almost unnoticeable stains across the entire room, there was blood.

  
Bull stepped lightly, careful of the jagged glass littering the floor. The door hiding Ceire's prized Orlesian bathtub was slightly ajar, and he headed straight for it. His heart sank to his stomach in panic when he saw a foot sticking out over the edge, the pale skin coated in dark red.

  
“Ceire,” He gasped, stepping further into the room to see inside the tub. A breath of relief left him as he saw her chest moving—still alive. But her hands and wrists were just as coated with a cracking layer of blood as her feet, and purple shadows marred the skin beneath her eyes. Obviously she hadn't been sleeping much, not until now. By the Fade, she was still in her armor from their trip to the Coast. He was loath to wake her, but knew it was the best thing to do. There was a reason for her behavior, and it was eating her from the inside. He'd be damned if he didn't help her. “Boss,” He said quietly, shaking her shoulder. She inhaled a bit deeper, her eyes opening reluctantly. The normally bright irises were now veiled, looking more like murky water than a clear night sky. “Hey. I'm gonna get you out of this tub, okay?” She just lowered her eyelids again, allowing him to lift her up and set her atop a barrel in the corner of the room.

  
Bull studied her for a moment, feeling a bit out of his element. He ran through his memory, trying to match her behaviors with something he'd seen before. She had the same distant look as someone who had gone into shock. Insomnia, certainly, and he knew via Cole that she was prone to nightmares. The wreck of her room could have been a temper tantrum in reaction to something, or perhaps a display of distress. He didn't know. His training hadn't prepared him for this. He didn't know what she wanted, nor what she needed. So, he would have to act on instinct. He knew Ceire, had fought alongside her, had spent time with her... and with a sudden rush of both warmth and cold, Bull realized that he felt for her. Without him noticing, the little elf girl had sunk her daggers deep into his heart.

  
“You alright there?” Bull asked, receiving the tiniest of nods from Ceire. He nodded to himself, circling around the tub to the water-filled casks on the other side of it. One of them was positioned with its spigot over the tub; he turned the handle, allowing the water to flow out. Once the water level was sufficiently high, Bull shut the valve and came back to Ceire. “I'm gonna take your armor off now, alright?” Another small nod, and Bull set to work, stripping off layer after layer of dirty cloth and dusty leather until Ceire was only in her leggings and a cotton undershirt. “Can I take these off, too?” A nod. Bull lifted the shirt carefully over her head, shimmying the pants down her legs without moving her from her perch on the barrel. He kept his gaze squarely on her face as he reached around her back to touch the clasp of her breastband. “Is this okay?” Another nod; Bull unhooked the clasp, allowing the fabric to fall away and reveal her. Still, he didn't look. “Are your feet alright? Can you stand?” She blinked slowly, and Bull took that as affirmation. He curled his hands around her waist, ignoring how good the softness of her skin felt against his callused palms, and set her on the ground lightly to ease her underwear down her legs. “Okay, Boss. I'm putting you in the tub.”

  
The water closed around her, covering her up to her chin. It was warm, slightly steaming due to the stone heating rune he'd found in the bucket containing various vials of soap and perfume. Bull retrieved that bucket now, rifling through the bottles and selecting a pink one that was nearly empty. He assumed it must be her favorite, due to its use. Working in silence, Bull cupped his hands and dumped water over Ceire's hair, wetting it before he massaged the soap into her scalp. Once that was clean, he moved to her hands and feet, taking his time with rubbing off the dried blood. The entire time, he was studying her face, which remained alarmingly blank.

  
“There you go. All clean,” Bull said with a small smile, opening a towel from a pile in the corner. “Can you stand up?” Ceire did as he asked, allowing Bull to wrap the towel around her before lifting her out of the dirty water. He dried her off with gentle strokes, then scooped her up in his arms again and set her down on the edge of the couch near the stairs. It was mostly untouched, as opposed to her feather-covered bed. “Let me find you something to wear. Then I'll find you some food. Leliana said you haven't eaten in a few days.” He brushed back her hair and took a moment to indulge in a caress of her jaw before he headed for the wardrobe near her bed. Unsurprisingly, most of her clothes were rough cotton and worn-in leather, but nestled between a heavy scout coat and a faded nugskin vest, he found a nightgown made from Orlesian silk. “A gift from Josephine, I imagine,” He commented as he brought it over to her, slipping the fabric over her head and letting it flow over her body. “Or perhaps from a visiting noble. It suits you.” He sat beside her for a moment, one hand on her knee. “What are you hungry for? They're still having breakfast downstairs. Maybe a biscuit with honey? Or I'm sure one of the kitchen staff would be happy to make you one of those pastries you like.” He waited a moment, then stood. “I'll just surprise you.” Before he could take a full step, a fist caught hold of his pants, giving him pause. He glanced back over his shoulder.

  
Ceire's eyes had cleared from their detached fog, but were now glassed over with unshed tears. Her free hand shook where it rested on her leg. Bull immediately spun around, kneeling on the ground and squeezing her kneecaps.

  
“B-Bu-u-ull,” Ceire gasped. “I-I—”

  
“Easy. It's okay. You're okay,” He said, easing her off of the couch and tucking her against his chest. Her breaths rattled in and out of her chest, her body shuddering. Bull rubbed his hands up and down her back, trying to calm her.

  
“Alone, I'm a-a-alone,” She sobbed.

  
“No, you aren't,” Bull comforted. “I'm right here. And everyone else is downstairs, worrying about you.” Carefully he shifted her, sitting cross-legged and settling her in his lap. After a few minutes, Ceire wound down, her desperate cries turning into little more than shivering whimpers. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

  
“I'm exiled.” Her whisper was devastated as she confessed. “Rhonen... broke our blood. I have no family now. No clan.” She blinked, one more tear dripping down her cheek. “ _Harellan_. 'Traitor to one's kin'. That's who I am now. Ceire Harellan, of shadowed blood, corrupted by the God of Death.”

  
“That's shit,” Bull said fiercely, surprising her when he tilted her chin so she looked at him. “You _were_ Lavellan, just like I _was_ Hissrad. It's nothing but a name. You are the same person.”

  
“But it stands for 'traitor',” She sniffled.

  
“Then change it,” He suggested. “Or get rid of it.”

  
“Who would I be, if I did that?” She looked better, Bull noted with pleasure, more focused on their conversation than her inner thoughts. His instincts were apparently working.

  
“You could be Ceire the Inquisitor. Ceire, Herald of Andraste. Ceire, who faced down an archdemon. Ceire Dragon-Slayer. Ceire Rift-Closer. Ceire Demon-Ass-Kicker.” She giggled at that one, and Bull counted it as a victory. Seeing her with a pink flush on her cheeks and a smile curving her lips again, and knowing he had put it there... He couldn't help feeling a bit mushy. “Or you could just be Ceire. Nothing wrong with that.”

  
“Maybe I could choose a new name, like you did.” Ceire was playing along with him now. “Something like... Dawnstone Dragon.”

  
“Except it's supposed to fit you, and that doesn't. Maybe Nevarrite Nug.”

  
“That's _The_ Nevarrite Nug. I like having the article in front. Makes me sound like a mindless cuddling machine, an instrument of cute,” She grinned, mocking the words he'd said to her when they'd first met. Bull chuckled, poking her stomach.

  
“You're evil.” They laughed together, then Ceire quieted and leaned her forehead against his shoulder. Bull toyed with the short strands of hair at the nape of her neck.

  
“I'm sorry about Gatt,” She murmured after a moment.

  
“He deserved it,” Bull growled. “Prick. He always had anger problems. Never thought he'd pick a fight with the leader of the Inquisition, though. That's new.”

  
“I did start it...” Ceire confessed. “I just couldn't stand the way he was talking. As if you were nothing, just because you wouldn't sacrifice the Chargers. As if they weren't worth saving.” She lifted her head to look at him. “But he was right about one thing. It's my fault, that you're Tal-Vashoth. I'm so, so sorry. And... I understand if you want to take your men and move on. Maker knows I've put you all in enough difficult situations.”

  
“No way you're getting rid of us that easy, Boss,” He said, flicking her forehead affectionately before going a bit more serious. “I'm not exactly happy about being Tal-Vashoth, but it's worth it to know that I saved my boys.” His hand drifted down from her shoulder to her waist, his fingers flexing around her hipbones. There was a twinge of nervousness in his stomach, one that he was unfamiliar with. If he thought hard enough, he would've recognized that he'd felt it before—often, in fact, around Ceire. “No matter what I miss, or what I've given up, I'm exactly where I want to be.”

  
Ceire blinked one, twice.

  
Then she leaned forward and upward and pressed her mouth against his.

  
.

  
She jerked away before he could really realize what was going on. Her hands flew to her mouth, her entire face a bright, hot red. A muffled apology squeaked out from behind her palms. Bull stared at her for a long moment, lips still slightly parted from the surprise contact. Then, he burst into laughter. Such hard laughter, in fact, that he had to hold his stomach as his sides started hurting. Ceire watched him with confusion and a little bit of panic that she might be the source of his amusement.

  
“Shut up!” She whined, smacking his arm. “It's not like I'm experienced or anything! It was probably the worst kiss you've ever had, but don't laugh at it! That's so mean; you're so mean! I take it back! I can't believe I wasted my first kiss on you!”

  
“Boss,” Bull interrupted her, shaking her shoulders just a little. She snapped her mouth shut, glaring at the wall with a blush still residing on her cheeks. He shook his head, still grinning even as he leaned in for another kiss. “You ramble when you're nervous.” Then he leaned back and studied her face with curiosity. “Your first kiss?”

  
“It's not like there were a line of people giving affection to the spawn of the god of death,” Ceire said wryly. Bull frowned at her, squeezing her arm to get her attention.

  
“No more of that,” He instructed, leaving no room for argument. “You aren't cursed, you aren't a traitor, you aren't a failure. You're the Inquisitor. There's an entire stronghold of people outside that agree.” She shifted in his lap, suddenly shy, training her gaze on the buckles of his armor.

  
“What am I, to you?”

  
“Whatever you want to be,” He offered. “You want to forget all this happened, that's fine. We walk out of here as comrades and friends, just like usual.”

 

“And... if I don't want that?”

  
“It can be casual, if you want. Strictly for stress relief, to get some of the weight off of your shoulders. Although I imagine if I was your first kiss, I'd be your first of other things, and we'd need to do some talking beforehand.”

  
“And what about... more?” Bull rubbed the back of his neck, unsure of exactly what to say.

  
“We... didn't really do 'more' under the Qun,” He said haltingly. “Qunari don't have relationships. Sex isn't for love; we're selected for breeding, like livestock, in a way. We just don't do the true love and holy matrimony thing.”

  
“I understand,” Ceire said quickly, avoiding his gaze as she got to her feet and picked her way through the messy room to her bedside table, retrieving a comb and running it quickly through her hair. “I should probably get downstairs; I've avoided my responsibilities long enough. Surely I have a fresh stack of reports to go over with Josephine. And poor Cullen, I've abandoned him with all the new recruits...” Bull shook his head, cursing inwardly and standing.

  
“Boss,” He said, but she ignored him, muttering about taking Dorian to the Black Emporium for a new staff. When she brushed back by him with an armful of her ripped-up books to toss into the fire, he seized her wrist and pulled her to a halt. “Boss.”

  
“It's alright, Bull,” She smiled, subtly trying to pull away. “Believe me, I—”

  
“ _Listen_ , Ceire.” His hands fully wrapped around her skinny arms, his thumbs overlapping his fingers. She looked up at him, though her eyes were intent on his horns rather than his gaze. “That was under the Qun.” He waited a moment, but when no connection clicked in her mind, he pulled her a little closer. “I'm not under the Qun anymore.”

  
“O-oh.” Realization hit her like a trebuchet, and a flush crept from her cheeks to the tips of her ears. “So...”

  
“We can try your 'more', if that's what you want,” He said, releasing her arms and folding his arms over his chest. It probably looked gruff and intimidating, but really it was a method against the nervous fidgeting that he could feel tickling his fingertips. Never had he imagined that he'd be saying these words. Getting into this kind of unknown was... well, unknown.

  
“But what do you want?” He looked at her in surprise, finding her expression as unguarded as he'd ever seen it. She looked so young, so innocent in the way she trained her eyes on his face and studied it for any type of change. “This... 'more'... you shouldn't do it just for me.” And just like that he knew. Not that he had any sort of past experience to go by, but he'd read one of Varric's cheesy romance serials—just for curiosity's sake—and whatever was happening to him was reminiscent of the butterflies thing.

  
“Hey,” Bull smiled, stepping closer and bending down to put his forehead against hers. “I wouldn't offer if I didn't want it.”

  
.


End file.
